“They’re going on a fucking tour while I’m wasting away.”
“You’re not wasting away. You’re about to record a single.”
“I can’t fucking do anything with one arm.”
“Well, you’ll never get to use your second one if you keep hurting yourself.”
Eyes wide, mouth twisted, he pushed past me and walked out of the studio.
I followed.
When we reached the living room, Frank shifted gears and halted in front of the bar. He pulled out a clean glass and a bottle of liquor and poured himself a shot.
“Don’t,” I said, my voice wobbly.
“Silently, he brought the drink to his mouth and took a sip.
My heart sobbed in frustration. “Frank.” I moved closer and held out my hand in hopes he’d surrender the glass. “Please.”
No reaction.
“I’m serious.” I took another step. The inches of space between us that was poisoned with ugliness shrunk.
My heartbeats were fast and shallow.
Tossing his head back, Frank swallowed down the rest and gave me the empty glass. “Here.”
I glared at him, fury boiling in my chest.
“Take it or leave it, doll.” His deep whiskey voice was filled with defiance. It sounded a lot like an ultimatum.
Leave, my pride and my common sense whispered. But instead, I grabbed the glass. My hand shook. A thousand bitter words crammed my throat and threatened to come out, but I willed my tongue to remain quiet. There was no point in talking to him when he was completely out of his mind like this.
His loud footsteps boomed through the hallway and disappeared into the bedroom.
At first, I couldn’t move. A wave of unpleasant memories of my father swept me under. They were a dark vortex of fragments of my broken childhood and they made me wonder if my mother had tried hard enough and if I was wrong to think about leaving this house and the man who lived here. They made me wonder if I was a quitter too, if I was a bad girlfriend, ready to desert a person at his worst. The thought was like a hot flash. It hit me the instant Frank touched the drink and now it refused to go away.
Minutes passed before I finally gathered enough courage to move. Every muscle in my body was tight with worry. Confusion and anger brewed in my stomach. My fingers felt clammy and foreign as I went through the bar and emptied every single bottle that had alcohol in it.
Part of me expected to find more wreckage in the bedroom when I went to check on Frank, but there was none. Shoulders slumped, he sat on the edge of the bed and stared at his knuckles. Silent and still. A shimmering streak of moonlight spilled across the floor, slicing the room in half.
The night was almost perfect. Except for the faint smell of broken promises and alcohol in the air.
“I’m going to work for a bit,” I said calmly and returned to the den to finish my pitch. Three hours later, when I slid under the blankets, Frank was passed out.
“Didn’t he have a therapy session today?” Brooklyn muttered, checking Frank’s calendar on her iPad as we surveyed the gruesome results of his outburst inside the studio.
He was still asleep and I didn’t dare wake him. As a matter of fact, I wasn’t certain if I could face him just yet. Last night’s fight only strengthened my belief that Frank was spiraling out of control. He was falling and he was taking me along for the ride, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to go.
“Yep.” Brooklyn’s voice dragged me back to the studio. “Looks like he’s missing his 11 a.m.”
“Great.” I shook my head and stared at the pack of ripped wires sticking out chaotically from one of the output panels. “Do you think I’m a horrible person for wanting to call Janet?”
“Why would you do that?” Brooklyn’s brow arched up.
“I didn’t know how to handle him yesterday. I’d never seen him that…upset.”
“Trust me, Janet is the last person you want to call when Frank is going off the rails. Although he’s not her son by blood, they are the worst when they get emotional together. You don’t want to worry her for no reason. It’s best if you talk to Billy.”
“What do you mean for no reason? He hurt himself last night.”
Brooklyn tore her gaze from the iPad and looked at me. “He’s rich, famous, and talented. Self-destruction is in his blood.”
“And you suggest we just watch and don’t interfere?”
“No. Therapy usually helps him get back on track. You can’t expect him to simply snap out of it overnight, honey. Not after everything he’s been through these past seven years.”
“I don’t want to be passive about his drinking problem. Isn’t there anything else we should do?”
“Like what? What do you have in mind that we haven’t tried yet? Committing him? I’d like to see you try that.”
A shuddered breath left my lungs. I’d already considered talking to him about AA, rehab, and meditation. We’d addressed the problem, but we’d never addressed how exactly he’d keep himself in check.
Brooklyn continued to stare at me. “I’ve been working for Frank for over ten years,” she spoke calmly and reassuringly. “I’ve seen his ugly side more times than you can imagine. Fame is overwhelming, Cassy. Especially when you need to meet the expectations of the entire planet. Imagine that everything that made you—your face, your body, your voice—is taken away from you in a split second. Imagine getting cut and rebranded countless times just to be able to meet those unrealistic expectations. I’ve been there through all of that and you haven’t. So don’t tell me how to do my job. He’s been in rehab before. He’s talked to dozens of different psychiatrists. Trust me when I tell you, it’s best not to push him over the edge and, instead, let him come to a decision gradually. When he’s ready. If he truly wanted to hurt himself, he would have done it a long time ago.”
I disagreed wholeheartedly, but I didn’t want to spread my feelings thin by engaging in a pointless argument. I was saving myself for my conversation with Frank. Promises without some kind of a plan didn’t cut it anymore.
I spent the rest of the morning working in the spare bedroom. There was a certain level of avoidance in my relentless chase after the empty inbox. I’d probably typed close to a million words by the time the knock on the door finally broke me out of my email-composing trance.
I dragged my gaze away from the screen and across the room to where Frank stood.
Our eyes met.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to bother you.” He’d shaved. His arm was back in the sling, which made me wonder if he’d done way more to himself last night than busting his knuckles.
“It’s fine.” I closed my laptop. “I was going to talk to you anyway.”
He began his approach, but stopped before reaching the desk. His expression conveyed a multitude of emotions, yet I couldn’t pin down a single one.
“About yesterday…” There was a slight rasp in his voice as he wavered.
“I can’t stay in this house if you drink.” My words tumbled out of my mouth and stunned him into shock.
“It won’t happen again, doll,” he finally whispered, moving toward the desk sitting between us. I lifted my chin and got to my feet, needing to be taller, needing to feel stronger, needing to be in charge. For once. Although everything inside me was plummeting.